Cain's Curse
by highland laurel
Summary: This is a sequel to The Mark of Cain. Mingo must face the Radler brothers to fight for his life. Contains elements from Cherokee beliefs. More violent than most of my stories.
1. Chapter 1

Cain's Curse

_A man that studies revenge keeps his own wounds green._

_Francis Bacon_

Prologue

The night sounds enclosed Mingo's comfortable camp. The tiny fire contained in the fire ring cast minimal shadows into the dense forest. Above him the bright summer moon sent cool blue beams to bathe his body. Relaxing with his last cup of coffee before sleep, he leaned back against the smooth sycamore bark and allowed his mind to wander. Nearby in an ancient oak a horned owl called. Considered a messenger by his Cherokee people, the owl's distinctive call could be a harbinger of doom or blessing. A small smile lifted Mingo's lips. "Which is it, my brother?" he questioned of the feathered crier.

He knew he possessed a distinctive caution when dealing with the supernatural world. With a small chuckle he remembered the words of Daniel Boone years before. In his mind he saw the eerie massacre site known as Wisachu. "It's not the English part of you that makes you want to jump at shadows," the sturdy frontiersman had pointed out. Again the owl's muted cry drifted from the forest oak.

Mingo's mind drew more memories from deep inside his heart. He was small, maybe five years old, sitting in Menewa's lodge listening to his two uncles fashion tales as the winter wind blew from the north. His mother and aunts carefully sewed new footwear for the family, their dark eyes intent on the work in their laps. Menewa glanced at his small nephew. His face bathed by the light of the flickering flames, his voice a whisper, he disclosed the ending of the story.

Talota glanced up at her brother's face, then over to her small son. An uncontrollable shiver ran up the child's spine, his large eyes filled with fright. But he did not cry out or seek the comfort of her arms. Bravely he resettled his small frame on the deer hide and faced his uncle. "E-du-tsi, why is North Wind so angry? Have we displeased him somehow?" Outside the lodge the wind pushed strongly against the sturdy walls. Mingo's childish voice quivered as he asked the most serious question. "Have I angered North Wind?"

A small cry of displeasure escaped Talota. She glared at her brother, all her mother's protective instincts visible in her eyes. Menewa shifted on his hide to escape his sister's disapproval. On the far side of the circle John Murray resettled himself impatiently. The practice of spending evenings with Talota's family often irritated the British officer. Now he faced Menewa with obvious distain. "Nonsense, Mingo! The wind is not a living thing, like a man, that you can anger. It is simply a force of nature."

Menewa's thin lips pressed tightly together at the degree of rudeness displayed by his brother-in-law. Not only was he challenging one of Chota's most important men, his own relative, but he was dismissing generations of Cherokee beliefs as false and ridiculous. Facing the officer, Menewa spoke directly to the foolish man. "Wisdom is a gift that is given when one is willing to listen, no matter the age."

The criticism was obvious to everyone in the lodge, even Mingo. His face displayed distress at having caused the sharp exchange of words. He saw John's jaw clench in anger. Leaping to his feet, he watched as the British officer flung aside the heavy bear hide and escaped through the door into the winter night. Unable to control the heavy sigh that lifted his chest, Mingo dropped his head in sorrow.

Silence settled in the firelit lodge. Talota finished the seam on her son's boot, stood, and held out her hand. Mingo took it. Together they walked to the doorway. Talota turned and faced her rigid brother. "My husband does not understand. He does not know that wind is alive, as is stone, or earth. Forgive him, brother."

Menewa raised his head and held his sister's eyes. Seconds later his gaze shifted to the boy standing quietly at her side, his hand in hers. The words floated softly into the warm lodge. "Mingo, never forget what you know is true. Understand me? Never forget."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter One

Sitting against the sycamore now, Mingo could feel the life pulsing in the heart of the tree. He whispered to his distant uncle, "No E-du-tsi, I have not forgotten. Always I will remember." As if in response, the horned owl called again. Deep in the Kentucky forest another of its kind answered. Mingo leaned his head back against the tree and watched the sparks from the campfire drift brightly into the darkness. The darkness reached out to capture them. Pondering Nature's mysteries, Mingo slipped slowly into sleep.

He awakened just after dawn. The morning bird calls echoed from the forest around him. As he sat and listened to their music, he noticed that no birds were singing from the trees to his left. Puzzled, cautious, he stood and slipped to the north. A dozen paces from his campfire he found the answer. Suspended from the branches of a small oak was the dying body of a horned owl.

Horrified, Mingo walked slowly to the suffering bird. It was tied upside down by a leather thong around its feet. Its beautiful long wings hung loosely extended from its sides. Blood trickled from a wound in its feathered breast, the dark liquid drops falling regularly to pool beneath its body. Compassionately Mingo drew his large knife and ended the owl's agony. Then he bent to read the message from the forest floor.

Two men had done the deed. There were two distinct sets of footprints in the soft soil. Large, heavy prints. No effort had been made to erase them. An uncontrollable shudder shook Mingo's body as he realized the meaning. The men had to know he was only yards away. The threat was very plain. But who were these men, and why would they threaten a lone man miles from any settlement and then leave?

Mingo cut the owl's body loose, removed the binding and buried it beside the tree. Time would transfer the life energy from the dead owl to the tree. Whispering thanks to the owl, Mingo quickly walked back to his camp, snatched his gear and moments later returned to read the trail left for him.

The trail led west. Mingo walked slowly, careful to make no sound. His mind searched for memories, thoughts, experiences that could shed light upon what he was facing. He understood that to try and run would not save him; the two men would simply follow him wherever he went. This was clearly a vendetta, a pair seeking revenge. Revenge against him, or against any Cherokee? Perhaps the vendetta was against any Indian. Whatever the reason, it was evident they intended to prey upon Mingo's mind as well as his body. The mutilated owl was proof of that. Willing a growing uneasiness back down into the bottom of his heart, Mingo continued west.

At midday he stopped. Hunger was sapping his strength. With a resigned sigh he built a small fire, filled his coffee pot half full of water from a little creek, threw in a small handful of coffee and reentered the woods. Like a shadow he moved from tree to tree. The slight western breeze blew a disturbing scent to his sensitive nose. Blood, unmistakably. A large amount of blood.

Peering cautiously through the trees, Mingo saw the source of the odor. Stretched from two trees in the full light of day hung a black bear carcass. The animal facing him was positioned carefully, as though for his benefit. The body was opened from throat to groin. All the entrails were removed and hung like grisly decorations from the branches of the trees.

He stood transfixed, staring at the senseless mutilation. A suspicion began to grow in his agile mind. Bear was the symbol of West. It appeared that one of his questions posed hours ago was answered. Whoever had done this, it was for him. He was the target. Whether as a Cherokee, or for himself, it was becoming more and more obvious that the two men responsible knew he was a Cherokee.

His hunger forgotten, Mingo retraced the steps back to the fire. The pot was boiling.

He poured a steaming cup of coffee and sat facing west, his turbulent thoughts churning through his mind as the hot liquid churned through his empty stomach. As the minutes passed he reached for his Cherokee heritage. 'If I am to face this trial, I must enter the healing way,' he thought to himself.

In his mind he sought Pittipuhni. Menewa's medicine man taught a technique used for generations. Carefully controlling his breathing, staring sightlessly into the flames of his campfire, Mingo envisioned a bridge crossing a turbulent river. He saw himself on one side. Opposite he saw the endless forest. As he concentrated he heard the sound of snapping branches. A bear emerged to pause at the base of the bridge. Watching from his vantage point, Mingo saw two men approach the animal. The bear remained passive and allowed the men to encircle its paws with heavy rope. Pulled upright, the animal made no resistance, offering itself. In his mind he heard the bear's voice: "Caramingo, I give myself to you."

There was a flash of light and a loud shot. The bear dropped at the feet of the men. The vision ended as if blown out. Mingo shook his head and blinked hard. Trembling, he got to his feet and walked back to the carcass. With a prayer of thanksgiving he sliced long strips of meat from the bear, revived his fading fire, roasted the meat and ate his fill. The meat he did not eat he placed in the bottom of his pouch. Then, strengthened by the nutrition, he kicked apart his fire, poured the last of the coffee onto the coals and turned right. If he was correct in his thinking, the next depredation would be to the north.

He walked steadily for the remainder of the day, stopping only when darkness made the trail impossible to see. The two men made following very easy. They trotted or ran, taking care to stay ahead of Mingo. Their teasing display angered the Cherokee but he pushed the emotion deep into his heart, knowing that anger would make him careless. Carelessness would cost his life. Of this, he had no doubt.

Near noon the next day he found the deer. All four legs were cleanly cut from the body. The trunk was wrapped around a small tree, bound so that it appeared the tree emerged through the body. Both eyes were gone. Mingo could not tell if scavengers had removed them, a common occurrence, or if they had been removed by the two men ahead of him. Either way the discovery shook him. The meaning was obvious; he was walking blind. The removal of the legs indicated that he himself could not escape. Worse, what had been done to the deer would be done to him.

Again unnerved by the men's understanding of Cherokee beliefs, Mingo backed several feet along his trail. "Deer," he murmured. "You symbolize a quiet heart. My heart is anything but quiet! Speak to me, my brother. Send me your quiet wisdom."

As he had done with Bear, Mingo sat before a quickly made campfire and sought Deer. Through the warmth of afternoon he sat, concentrating on the flames before him. Hours later he became aware of a whisper. At first he thought it was simply a breeze in the leaves above him. But gradually he discovered the words within the sound. "Call upon your guide, Caramingo. Seek his help."

Nodding his understanding, Mingo stretched full length upon the cool ground. He focused his eyes on the top of a nearby basswood, the last of its spring flowers spiraling down upon his body. Slowly a man took shape, his long flowing hair a silvery grey. On his buckskin shirt were symbols of the four elements: wind, water, fire and earth. Soundlessly he pushed from inside the basswood. Mingo watched him walk toward the earth, slipping down a beam of sunlight.

"Nv-da," Mingo murmured. "Welcome. I seek understanding. Who wants to mutilate me? For what reason? I humbly seek your counsel." In the stillness of the afternoon Mingo listened for the words of his guide. Light radiated from the elderly man's body. Wordlessly he lifted his finger and made a slicing motion behind his left ear. Then, eyes burning, he walked backwards up the shaft of sunlight and into the basswood. Seconds later Mingo refocused on the world around him. Unconsciously he raised his left hand and touched his left ear.

A memory struggled to emerge through the mists of his mind. He lay comfortably on the ground and allowed the formation. From a great distance he heard the sound of a whip. A scream of rage and pain followed. He sat up as though pulled by a strong rope. He knew his adversaries now. Swallowing the bile that rose in his mouth, he stood and began to prepare for what he knew he was facing.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Two

A day later Mingo found the eagle just as the sun lifted above the trees. Like the owl, it had been suspended. Unlike the owl, it was horribly maimed. Cringing, Mingo cut the body from the tree and reverently buried it. Eagle was the symbol of the east, the direction of belonging. The two men did not belong anywhere. Gritting his teeth as he remembered, Mingo realized that the two Radler men were blaming their isolation on him.

And in a way, they were correct. When Justina carved the lines into their cheeks, he had pushed dark ash into the deep cuts. Permanently tattooed, Oscar and Horace Radler were easily recognized wherever they went. The complaint lodged against them in Salem by Charles Hays, Justina Radler and Mingo was valid throughout the colonies. There was no place where they were welcome.

A thought flashed through Mingo's mind. Where were Charles and Justina? And what had become of the two boys with them? Something pricked his senses just below the surface of consciousness. A slight breeze brought the smell of smoke. Mingo began to run, dodging through the thick trees, flashing through the bars of sunlight. It was not a campfire burning. It was a cabin.

Fifteen minutes later he skidded to a halt at the edge of a clearing. His staring eyes took in the carnage. Despondently he released his breath. He could see a slight body lying before the burning cabin. Mingo knew what he would find as he forced his feet forward.

Charles lay on his stomach, his bloody hands outstretched. Deep hatchet wounds covered his body from the top of his head to the soles of his feet. He was cut to pieces. Any of a number of the wounds would have been fatal. Swallowing the grief, Mingo unsteadily wound his way to the back of the cabin. Justina was hung from the center clothesline pole. Like her husband, deep hatchet wounds covered her body. In a fit of demonic play the two men had wiped clean her scared face. The three healed cuts on either check were carefully etched with charcoal.

Holding her still-warm body in his left arm, Mingo released the ropes that bound her. He carried her around the burning cabin. Laying her body at the edge of the clearing, he spent the next hour digging the large grave with the shovel he found upright in the soil of the garden. Tenderly he lay Charles in first, then placed Justina beside him. Covering the bodies with a layer of branches, he shoveled the soil in place. The summer darkness was falling before he finished.

He spent the night slumped against a tree beside the grave. Hugging his arms against the night chill, he reviewed his memories of the slight Pennsylvanian who had given him his first adult lessons in woodsmanship. Just returned from England, Mingo had been inexperienced in the woods. Charles taught with a blend of patient instruction and great good humor. Through the brief summer night Mingo traveled the paths of remembrance with the small frontiersman.

Dawn found him carving the marker for Charles and Justina Hays. It was simple, as they had been simple. With a final prayer for the two souls, Mingo lifted his rifle and began to search for the boys' tracks. They had been about six and eight when Mingo first saw them. That was more than a year ago. The elder could now be ten. It was unlikely that he had gone willingly with his brutal father. The younger boy may have been more biddable. Mingo stood still, thinking. Then with a determined stride he entered the forest to the south of the cabin.

Only a dozen yards into the trees he found the trail. Each man dragged a boy. The struggle was plainly written in the scuffed soil. To the south was Chota. As he followed the newly made trail Mingo thought of his family and friends. Would he ever see them again? His fear combined with rage and he trotted rapidly to overtake his nemeses.

Near nightfall he stumbled as the ground fell away at his feet. Leaping to the side, Mingo managed to avoid falling into the narrow defile. Something bumped against his leg as the dirt slid into the ditch. He snatched his hatchet from his belt and held it ready in his hand.

Cautiously he leaned over. Peering into the trench he saw the limp body of a gutted rabbit.

Rabbit was the playful, foolish symbol for South. Though quick and a master at camouflage, Rabbit was also known to be a stretcher of truth, a liar. South itself was the symbol of learning. Were the Radler brothers telling Mingo that he failed to learn a lesson, or that he was about to learn one? Mingo's gaze once again brushed against the broken body of the small, inoffensive forest creature.

In the fading light he saw that the ears were strangely elongated. Two long eagle feathers were attached to the rabbit's limp ears. Two feathers. Unconsciously Mingo touched the two feathers that rode above his head. The likelihood that this was coincidence was remote. The men were telling him that he was soon to be as lifeless, as mutilated, as the rabbit lying in the trench.

Suddenly Mingo understood their plan. He was meant to fall into the ditch. He staggered to his feet as the noose whistled through the air, pinning his arms tightly to his body. Instead of pulling against the grinning man, Mingo rushed toward him. His motion knocked the man to the ground. With a headlong dash, Mingo ran for the shadows of the timber. A rifle sounded nearby, a heavy blow struck his head, and the darkness he sought fell smotheringly around him.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Three

It was night when he awoke, his head pounding with pain, the side of his face sticky with drying blood. The ball had grazed his scalp. He could feel something tied between his bound hands. It was soft, pliant. A few feet away Horace and Oscar Radler sat looking at him. Blinking to clear his vision, Mingo saw the two boys likewise tied to trees behind their brutal father. The younger boy slumped forward, evidently asleep. The older boy's hard eyes stared into Mingo's. Their expression held a challenge. And blame.

Horace chuckled mirthlessly. "Hello, Cherokee. Remember us? Been some time, ain't it?

Glad you could join me'n Oscar for a little reunion. We been plannin' this party for many moons. Ain't we Oscar?"

The heavy man at Horace's left smirked, the muscles of his face lifting the dark parallel lines to bracket his words. "Sure. Couldn't see livin' no longer without payin' our dues. We owe you, Cherokee. Sure do. We Radlers never let a debt go unpaid!"

Both men grinned malevolently. Horace fingered his mutilated ear, slid his knife from its sheath at his belt, and placed the entire blade into the fire. Beside him Oscar did the same.

Mingo watched them, understanding that they intended to use the blades on him. It would be a horribly slow, agonizing death. Clamping down on the memories of a Huron victim he had seen years before, he forced his mind to search for support. He knew he would need all his strength, mental and physical, to die honorably.

"Nv-da, show me……..show me," Mingo whispered to himself. Trying to visualize his guide, he steadied his breathing, drawing life slowly into his body from the ground beneath. He drew the life force from the tree behind him and felt it run like sap through his veins. Nv-da began to materialize within the yellow flames. Forcefully Mingo pushed all thought from his mind as he prepared for the torture.

Horace Radler pulled his knife from the fire and with a look of hatred twisting his scarred face crept forward. Holding Mingo's refocused eyes, he cut loose the woven belt around Mingo's waist. He slid the hot knife underneath Mingo's vest, slowly pulling upward to slice the leather from his body. The back of the knife burned a trail of fiery red beneath the vest. The smell of singed hair and skin drifted up from Mingo's bound body. Pressing his lips tightly together, he did not flinch.

His eyes partially closed, his lips lifted in a smirk, Horace cut loose the vest from Mingo's shoulders. Again the blade left its trail of fire in the Cherokee's skin. Oscar called from the edge of the light. "Looks like you're drawin' a line to carve there, Horace. I bet you cain't foller it straight. Whadda you say?"

Horace glanced over his shoulder. "I take that bet! What're you bettin'?"

Before Oscar could answer Mingo spit his challenge. "I'll wager that you CAN make the lines straight, Horace. My wager is that if you do, I fight you. If you don't, I fight Oscar."

Taken aback by Mingo's bold pronouncement, Horace rocked back on his heels to consider. Seconds later he replied with a mocking smile, "I'll take your bet. Oscar, what about you?"

Oscar crawled to kneel by Mingo's side. He had his own red-hot knife in his hand. "Sounds good to me. Either way you're one carved Injun. I figure you got it comin' to you. Got it comin' hard!" Oscar's left hand unconsciously touched the black scars on his cheek, then rubbed the stump of his left ear. "We don't aim to scar you up and let you go like you done to us though."

"You've had a chance to choose your life. What did you do with that choice? Plot revenge against me, Charles and your brother's former wife! You chose your path. Every step was your own choice." Mingo's voice was laced with power. Oscar responded by pressing his blade against Mingo's throat. The steel bit through the skin before Horace pulled his brother's hand.

"Stop it, Oscar! You killin' him so quick ain't what we planned. Remember, we told the boys we'd show 'em how to deal with this Injun. Go wake up Rinney. Go on!" Horace shouted to his reluctant brother. Oscar's hand trembled with his desire to kill. But he slowly stumbled to his feet and did as Horace directed.

Mingo watched as the cruel man shook the boy awake. He could feel the blood trickling in rivulets from the cut at his throat. The wound stung but was too shallow to be fatal. Horace continued to squat before him, staring into his eyes. "That's just a little taste of what's to come. Feel good, Injun?" he said tauntingly.

"My name is Caramingo," Mingo declared proudly.

Horace grinned widely. "Good to know. But we ain't plannin' on any marker. There ain't goin' to be enough o' you to bury anyways. We're goin' to let the varmints have you. They'll scatter your bones all over this forest. That's what you wanted for us, ain't it?"

Mingo did not reply. Treacherously his memory replayed the last time he'd seen Horace Radler, tied tightly to a tree, his bloody cheeks swelled against the ash rubbed into the cuts. Oscar returned from waking Rinney, bent to look at Mingo's bound hands, and shot a pleased look toward his brother. "Them guts we tied in his hands is purty well putrified."

"Good! We'll rub some into his cuts oncet we get him carved up. Then we'll leave him for the varmints to finish." Horace pushed his face into Mingo's. "Maybe they'll wait until the poison gets him. Sittin' tied to this here tree, the rabbit guts mortifyin', could be he'd rot from the inside out. Yeah! That's what we'll do, Oscar. Rot him, not kill him."

Mingo's stomach lurched as the knowledge churned through his mind. What Horace was planning would indeed be a terrifying death. With great strength of will he kept the fear from showing on his face. He battled with his active mind as it presented all the possibilities. He loosened his hands to try and drop the handful of offal he held.

With a final gamble, he reissued his challenge. "What about my bet? You accepted."

Horace Radler leaned back on his heels, uncertainty plain on his face. As a reply, Oscar pressed the blade of his knife against Mingo's left shoulder and slowly drew the metal across the skin. Not completely taken by surprise, Mingo was able to stifle the cry before it could leave his lips. Desperately he continued to stare into Horace's light eyes.

Unexpectedly Horace leaped to his feet. He pulled on Oscar's shoulder. Unbalanced, Oscar fell over backwards. His upper body landed in the camp fire. With a scream of pain and fear, he rolled sideways to escape the flames. But in his panic he rolled the wrong way, increasing the amount of time in the flames. His hair on fire, his shirt burning, he continued to scream as he rolled on the ground. Vivid images of Pearl's death shot through Mingo's mind as he helplessly watched Oscar burn.

The two boys screamed in horror. They pulled at their bindings. Horace shouted for them to shut up as he knelt and threw dirt on his brother's writhing body. In the firelight the extent of Oscar's burns was difficult to see. But from past knowledge Mingo knew the man was badly burned and would likely die. He remained on the ground, the remains of his shirt bound to his body at his waist. His dirt-covered chest bubbled pink fluid.

"Horace," Oscar muttered. "Horace, it hurts! Do somethin'." The pleading voice was strangely at odds with the cruel, swaggering man he had been only minutes before. His burned fingers dug into the dirt as another paroxysm of pain traveled through his body. He shrieked in panic as he felt his life oozing away. Both boys and Horace stared helplessly as the hour passed. His left shoulder and throat seeping blood, Mingo sat bound to the tree and waited for the chance to preserve his own life.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Four

Horace dragged his brother's body far into the forest. The inhuman act caused a shudder to shake Mingo before he clamped down on his reaction, forcing his mind to concentrate on his own survival. To his left Horace strode back into the light, sliced through the bindings around his hands, and stepped back. His action was very plain.

Muscles cramping, Mingo slowly stood. The rough bark of the tree scratched his bare back as the remains of his vest fell from his body. Hands sticky from the rabbit guts, he cautiously leaned over and wiped them on the grass at his feet. Unarmed, he carefully placed his feet as he circled. His eyes never left Horace Radler, crouching with his large knife extended in lethal stabbing position. Hatred was etched in every line of his face.

"Run, Cherokee. Run so's I can push this blade into your red hide. A coward's death, that's what's comin' to you! Just like that little bantam Justina took up with." Horace's voice dripped with venom. Mingo glanced at the boys still bound to the trees at the edge of the firelight. "Never you mind about my boys. They're mine to do with. They ain't no concern o' yours."

Mingo still circled cautiously, the blood painfully rushing into his tingling legs. Quickly his eyes searched for his weapons, darting from the ground to the heavy man only three feet away. Horace baited his quarry mercilessly. "What did ya think of the bear? Took us hours to get him just right so's you'd see him. Kinda like he was a'reachin' for you, wasn't he?"

"Yessir, we found us a tame Cherokee wanderin' in the woods around Libertyville. Whole bunch o' tame Cherokee livin' over there. Heared you had somethin' to do with that. Convinced one to tell us all about your people's thinkin'. Wanted everythin' to be just right for you when we caught you." Mingo swallowed, and Horace chuckled. "Makes you a bit spooked, huh? How about the deer up a pole? That's what I'm fixin' to do to you. I ain't lookin' for a killin' spot. I want to stick you, make you weak so's I can blind you and post you as a warnin'."

Horace continued as he feinted and slashed at Mingo's bare chest. "Still quick as a bunny, ain't you? But you seen what I did to the little critter in the ditch. Goin' to do the same to you." Uncontrollable laughter split the darkness as the firelight lit the man's inhuman face. "Goin' to split you from gizzard to guts. Right on the line I drawed on you with my knife. Goin' to stick them two feathers o' yourn in your ears. Push 'em in deep. You'll make quite a decoration in this here forest afore the varmints pick you clean."

With another swipe that nearly caught Mingo's upper body Horace spun, kicked, and dropped the Cherokee. Rolling quickly, Mingo regained his feet and dashed sideways to avoid another wicked slash. "I'll string you up high on that pole, just like I done them birds. That owl was a real challenge, him bein' so close to you. Felled him with a rock up side the head. Then I poked him with a sharp stick. He squawked a bit, just like you're goin' to do when I stick you." Another slash brought the two men only inches from each other before Mingo kicked his adversary behind the knees. Horace dropped before his older boy and lost his hold on the knife. Quick as a snake the boy flipped his father's knife into the forest with his foot.

Bellowing with rage, Horace leaped up, balled his fist and hit the boy between the eyes. There was a loud crack of breaking bone. The boy hung from his binding, blood pouring from his nose and mouth. Mingo used the distraction to dash behind Horace. Shoved forward, Horace Radler struck a pin oak full force. His heavy body shuddered. Mingo held him upright as his knees buckled. But the heavy body continued to sink. Mingo could no longer hold him upright. Horace fell onto his back, his huge hands clutching his chest. In the light of the fire Mingo could see a bloody hole in the man's chest. A steady stream of bright blood spurted as Horace Radler's blue eyes blindly searched the forest. He bucked for a dozen seconds, then stretched out slowly. He was dead.

Mingo leaned forward to look at the tree. His eyes found the pointed stub of a branch that had broken off about five feet above the ground. Horace had been impaled on the sharp point. "Thank you, brother tree. Thank you for my life," Mingo whispered to the elderly oak. He closed his eyes to ponder the wonder. He had sought help from the life around him. That life had responded in an unexpected way. A yell of victory echoed in the darkness as Mingo stood, arms raised, over the dead body at his feet. Rinney drew himself as tightly as possible and burst into tears. Sobbing, he choked his brother's name. "Crowley? Crowley, wake up. Crowley, don't leave me!"

Mingo walked to Crowley's side and gently felt the boy's throat. There was no pulse. Slipping behind the body, he untied the boy. Holding the rope, he allowed the body to slowly slip down the tree to lie on the ground. Rinney continued to sob, his tear-filled eyes never leaving his brother's body. Mingo untied him and watched with compassion as the child draped over his brother.

As he watched, a verse remembered slipped from Mingo's memory. "Whosoever slayeth Cain, vengeance shall be taken on him sevenfold," he whispered. He shook his head as he watched Rinney mourn his slain brother. "I somehow doubt that." Looking into the forest where Oscar Radler lay, he saw Pearl and Justina nod their agreement from the misty netherworld they now inhabited. Charles smiled his lively smile. Then the three faded as mist was wont to do. Nv-da's eyes glowed as he too faded away in the last flickers of flame.

From the forest Bear beckoned with his heavy paw. Mingo shook his head to clear his mind and glanced at the sobbing boy. Then he followed the bear's summons. Within seconds he understood. The trench dug for him would serve as a burial for Oscar and Horace Radler. Minutes later both heavy bodies lay in the ditch. Mingo stood and kicked the soil to cover them.

He dipped his hands into a nearby stump to cleanse them in the shallow puddle of rain water.

When he returned to the camp the coals were nearly out. Rinney lay sleeping curled over Crowley's body. Mingo placed more wood on the fire, filled the nearly empty pot and searched for his belongings. Finding them piled on the hidden side of a tree, he drew out the remaining bear meat he'd cooked before and ate. He brewed the last of the coffee.

Moving Rinney near to the fire, he walked a few paces into the forest and dug a small grave with his hatchet. Covering Crowley's bloody face with his vest, he laid the body in the grave. Slowly, reverently he covered the child with earth. He spent the remainder of the night softly singing prayers for the brave boy who could not permit his father's twisted revenge.

Dawn's birds awakened Rinney. Mingo saw him sit up, puzzled, his dirty face filled with fear. He cowered as he looked around the quiet camp. Understanding that the boy was searching for his brutal father, he softly walked to the boy's side. Rinney's eyes followed his long legs, slipped over his bare chest. His light eyes lingered on the wounds made by the hot knives hours before. The crusted cuts at Mingo's throat and shoulder were stark against his brown skin. Rinney lifted his eyes to search the man's bloody face.

"Rinney, it is over. Your father can never hurt you again." Mingo smiled down into the boy's face.

"Crowley is dead though. Why is Crowley dead too?" Rinney's voice caught as he struggled to stop the sob.

"Your brother died very bravely, as bravely as I have ever seen. You have much to honor. Live your life as your brother would have wanted, as he would have done himself." Mingo's voice held a power that the boy had never before heard. He stared up into the Indian's face. Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes.

"Justina and Charles are dead too, ain't they? Pa killed 'em. I remember. Where do I go? Who wants me now?" Rinney dropped his face into his hands and began to sob. Mingo watched for several seconds, then sat beside the child and patted his shoulder comfortingly.

"Rinney, listen to me. I can take you to Salem. It isn't very far. The constable there is a good man. He will help you decide what to do. While I'm fixing something to eat, why don't you go and say goodbye to your brother? I've buried him just beyond the sweet gum over there. See?" Mingo pointed a few yards away. Nodding silently, Rinney got to his feet and walked to do as Mingo suggested.


	6. Chapter 6

Epilogue

Alone in the forest, the life swirled around him. Birds twittered and sang from the boughs of the trees. A rabbit darted from the thicket beside him. A bee buzzed around his head, then shot into the blooming blackberry bushes. As he walked Mingo thought about the circle of life. He had always been aware of it, an understanding handed down from his Cherokee people.

He thought about the brutality of the Radler brothers. It seemed that they had no understanding of the life circle. Suddenly, the image of his father impatiently leaving Menewa's lodge burst into his mind. "He doesn't understand," Talota had said. That was the entire problem, distilled down into only three words.

"Few of them do understand," he murmured to the sweet breeze. He placed his hand on the smooth sycamore bark beside him. Above him a cardinal sent pure notes into the sunlight sky. At his feet violets pushed up through the damp soil. "There is life in all of creation," he whispered. "Water, air, rocks, animals. So long as the white race denies this, they will destroy and be destroyed."

Bowing his head in sorrow, he closed his eyes and felt Sun's warm fingers soothe the tightness between his shoulders. Over his lean body Breeze blew her cool breath. To his right Woodpecker drilled for his afternoon snack. Life surged around him. Feeling blessed, he lifted his face in the dappled shade. Butterfly brushed against his cheek. With a soft prayer of thanksgiving, Mingo walked through the living forest that was his home.

Surrounded by bird song, cooled by the dappled shade, Nature gave her gifts freely to the man who understood. Buried beneath the soil, two cowardly men had refused those gifts. One brave boy had taken them home.


End file.
